


To Shield His Bones

by vaeltaa



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaeltaa/pseuds/vaeltaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Silva doesn't die, James aids and abets an internationally wanted terrorist and MI6 grow suspicious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Skyfall 00Silva.

James leans down to shut M's eyes and lets warm, heavy tears run down his cheeks, mingling with the cold lake water still dripping off of him since he crawled his way out of the freezing, watery grave. 

Kincade respectfully removes his hat in silence, mourning the passing of a strong lady he'd only known for less than a day, but that was long enough to see why James held her in such high regard.

He cradles the body one last time, before gently laying her down on the stone floor of the small chapel. Kincade steps towards him and takes off his weathered coat, and lets James cover her with it. 

They sit like this for a while, and to James it seems an eternity, but only minutes have passed when Kincade suddenly grabs him by the shoulder, eyes wide and staring beyond James in disbelief. James turns, and his insides grow as cold as his skin when he realises what has Kincade gripping his shoulder in fear. 

It's dark, but he can still make out the way the knife handle protruding from Silva's back is just barely moving, in tune with inhales and exhales from the unconscious but undoubtedly still breathing man.

James doesn't think but acts on decades of fine-tuned defence instincts, and grabs Silva's still loaded Steyr M9-A1 from where it had fallen on the ground, and moves to stand above the black-clad form. 

He aims the barrel at Silva's head, his finger heavy on the trigger and he's so close to pulling it that his body prepares for the all-too familiar shock of noise a gun shot produces, but his hand is shaking.

His hand is shaking, and it's not supposed to. It's shaking and he thinks of the look in Vesper's eyes when she'd kissed his hands and accepted her death. He thinks of Ronson who bled out in that chair and died alone. He thinks of Séverine, smudged mascara eyes and his broken promise to save her. He thinks of M's cold body a few feet away. So many. There were so many dead.

So much death.

He lets the gun drop to his side. 

"Kincade?" He gestures for the older man. Kincade looks more than a little in shock, and hesitates, looking at Bond for any logical reason as to why he still hadn't pulled the trigger, seemingly choosing to let this killer live.

"Please. Apply pressure to the wound," James says and looks understandably tired, but there was more to it, heavy like a tiredness of the soul.

"Apply pressure but do not remove the knife."

Kincade kneels and uses the length of Silva's coat as a compression device around the protruding blade while James starts for the door, but he halts in the small doorway of the once beautiful family chapel. 

"Letting him die here is too easy," he says quietly, not turning to face his old friend. "That was his plan, dying here. With her." 

Kincade looks solemnly at Bond's back in the doorway.

"But I'm not going to let him." James turns just long enough to kick the gun over to Kincade.

"Take the gun. Keep it close," he says. "And if he moves, aim for the kneecaps."

James is momentarily enlightened by the still burning lodge in the distance before he disappears in the darkness. Kincade goes back to work stopping the bleeding to the best of his ability. 

He was no expert, but he'd seen his fair share of hunting accidents in his lifetime and for the moment, it seemed the one thing keeping this man from bleeding out was the very blade itself. 

**

James had a hunch Silva's men had not bothered to lock their vehicles, and he was proven right. Four battered, army-grade Land Rovers were parked at the gates. James fumbles a bit in the darkness, but finds one of them has the keys still in the ignition.

He pushes the jeep to its limits as he drives it straight across the uneven Scottish moors, the roars of the engine and the gleam of the white headlights chasing away the dreamlike glow of the burning lodge. 

James backs the jeep up as close to the chapel as possible and goes back in to Kincade, who breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Together they carry the unconscious man outside and carefully place him face down in the truck's custom converted back compartment. A few discarded packs of ammunition and one automated assault rifle are the only things the henchmen left behind, and James tosses them out.

He considers for a moment, before removing his own still damp coat and throwing it over Silva's lower body. He knows victims of major blood loss lose body heat equally fast, and this was better than nothing.

James turns to Kincade, takes the gun back and secures it in his belt, face expressionless and hard. "The people I work for will arrive in the morning. They will take care of everything."

James looks at Silva's bloodied, dishevelled blonde hair. "They will ask questions. You should tell them everything. I can't ask you to lie for me."

"I'll tell them exactly what happened," Kincade replies earnestly. "A madman and his men tried to kill us, but he escaped and you chased after him, and that's all I know."

James meets the older man's kind eyes and gives him a small, almost grateful nod.

"I don't pretend to understand your reasons for doing all this James, because they are your own and yours to live with. But I know you have a good heart, just like your father." 

"Will you stay with her?"

Kincade puts a hand on Bond's shoulder and nods.

"Please, take care of yourself, son."

"Goodbye, Kincade."

**

James finds use for his every skill as he navigates the Rover on the narrow roads leading away from what remains of Skyfall lodge, mentally counting the miles to the nearest emergency room. Belford hospital in Fort William wasn't too far, he figures he can make it in fifteen if he breaks all the speed limits on the way.

He keeps the gun close at hand, one eye on the road and one in the mirror, watching intently for any changes in Silva's movements. His breathing seemed shallow but steady, and he figures a punctured lung is highly likely. If the blade nicked his spine, he could be paralysed. 

James stares into the darkness and wonders what the chances were of piercing a lung instead of the heart. That man had more lives than a cat.

He grinds his teeth and, not for the first time that night - questions his sanity. 

"Of all the times to miss the bloody target," he mutters.

And now there was no going back.

**

It's two in the morning when the paramedics of Belford hospital roll the stretcher with Silva's unmoving body into the well-lit building. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" One of them asks James, who follows them quickly inside.

"Hunting accident," James replies shortly. "He's lost a lot of blood."

"All right, get the IV started and bring him in the O.R," the nurse says. "He's going to need transfusions, do you know his blood type?" 

"No," James shakes his head. He watches them enter the operating room from behind a glass window and start preparing the anaesthesia.

He feels momentarily dizzy, the exhaustion of the night's events hitting him like a ton of proverbial bricks. He sways a little, and a passing nurse wants to know if he's okay.

"Yeah, thanks. Just tired," he replies with a less-than convincing smile. "Do you have a phone I could use?"

"Of course, right by that desk over there," the nurse points.

James glances through the viewing window again briefly, just as a nurse is cutting Silva's black trousers and sweater open with a pair of surgical scissors, and the nurse who removes the clothing seems momentarily taken aback.

James realises why; Silva's pale skin is covered in aged scars, the fibrous tissue marking almost every part of his exposed body. The nurse quickly regains her professional composure, but James is reminded of yesterday's meeting in the containment cell. The casual brutality and frayed emotional edge that lay behind the reveal of Silva's broken face, that spoke of a deeply traumatised human soul.

James thinks of how he added yet another scar to that tortured body tonight.

He steadies himself with a hand on the glass and feels like escaping outside to the waiting car and driving far, far away but something in him won't let his legs move. Maybe it was the way those scars could've easily been his own. Maybe it was the conscience he'd worked so hard to suppress, a useless thing in his line of work. Maybe it was the way the Silva kneeled when pain overwhelmed him. 

Or maybe it was the way his face could look so utterly at peace beyond the glass under the spell of artificially induced sleep, soiled blonde hair curling softly against his neck.

James retreats to make the call, grateful for the distraction but steeling himself for giving Mallory the news about M. 

The phone rings and suddenly, everything was real.

"Bond, thank God. I would say I'm surprised to hear you're still alive after this insane plan of yours, but clearly I'm not," Mallory says, sounding grim and just as tired as James was.

"M's gone. Silva got away."

There's a long silence on the other end.

"Did he...?"

"No, it was one of his men. A bullet must've grazed her. She didn't tell me. I couldn't do anything, it was too late."

Another, long silence.

"Are you in pursuit?"

James stares blankly ahead.

"Yes, but he had men waiting. I wouldn't expect a capture on this, sir."

"Where are you? Can you regroup in the morning with our people at Skyfall?"

"I'd... rather not go back, Mallory."

"God, of course. Take as long you need, debrief can wait."

"Thank you, sir."

"Bond. She cared for you. Don't put yourself through hell for this, she wouldn't have wanted that. In our line of work, you can't save everyone."

"Yes, sir."

**

James watches the heart monitor visualise Silva's pulse in green, flickering lines as the greying older doctor speaks. It's four in the morning and the intensive care unit is dim save for the glow of machines.

"Well, we've got the knife out and the wound was quite deep but incredibly enough, the only damage it seems to have done is to the left lung, but the blood loss is still severe. He's receieved transfusions, but he's going to need more and we haven't got enough here. We've got an emergency chopper coming in to take you to London Royal."

James sighs silently, grateful for small mercies. He was so tired he doubted his own ability to make the drive all the way back to London by himself, much less with a drugged terrorist in the back seat.

"With an injury like this, there's a high risk of infection and we're not willing to take any chances," the doctor continued.

"When will the anaesthesia wear off?"

"Oh, with the stuff he's on, he'll be out a good fifteen hours."

James watches the tube feeding blood into Silva's arm as he wonders what the hell he's going to do when they back to London. 

And what the hell he's going to do when Silva wakes up.

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's night when James is startled awake from empty dreams by a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silva finally decided to wake up, hooray! Post-Skyfall 00Silva, work in progress.

The chopper sets down on Royal Hospital's landing pad as dawn brings new light over London city. James nodded off somewhere over Manchester, but it was an unsatisfying, uneasy nap. Silva looked far more comfortable in his artificial sleep, covered by blankets and strapped down to the yellow stretcher. 

James checks that the gun is still secured in his belt, and with a sigh of relief he confirms that it is. The weight of it always a comfort.

One of the EMTs lets him borrow a mobile phone when they're inside. James has to make a call to one of the very few people he'd be able to trust for help in this situation. A friend from his Navy Reserve days who'd stitched him up countless times when hospitals and doctors would only ask questions he couldn't - or wouldn't answer. 

James follows the EMTs pushing the stretcher through the stark white corridors, and places the call.

"Kareem? It's Bond. Can you be at my flat in thirty minutes?"

"James? What's going on?" Kareem, a retired medical officer with the Royal Navy, sounds concerned and not in the least delighted to hear from him. A call from Bond could only mean trouble.

"I can't say over the phone, just be there, all right?"

"What is it, bullets again? Broken bones? I'll have to bring the right supplies."

"Bandages. Infusion pump. Pain killers, lots of them. Maybe some sedatives?"

They enter the large, bright ICU and the EMTs leave and let a nurse take over, checking Silva's vitals and replacing the bag of blood feeding into his arm with a new one, then she leaves to find admission forms for James to fill out.

However, he wasn't planning on sticking around that long.

James notices a fridge containing dozens of blood packets labelled type O, the universal blood type, and begins loading some of the packs into a nearby carrier bag. 

"Jesus, Bond. I assume these things aren't for you. Do I even want to know?" Kareem says in his ear.

"No, you don't," James huffs, and puts the bag on the stretcher and begins rolling it toward the large doors marked EMERGENCY ENTRY - NO EXIT. 

"Anything else?" 

James looks at Silva's unmoving hands next to his bandaged chest.

"Do you have a pair of handcuffs?"

Kareem is silent on the other end.

"Never mind."

**

An ambulance pulls up on the fancy street where James lived - or rather, stayed when he wasn't in Uruguay or China or someplace not even found on a map. It was thankfully void of any curious on-lookers, and Kareem is already waiting outside with a black duffel bag filled with medical supplies. 

He watches, wide-eyed as James opens the back doors from the inside.

"Please tell me you didn't steal this ambulance."

"Grab the stretcher."

"I can't believe you stole this ambulance."

"Kareem!" James sends him a frustrated look.

Kareem reluctantly obliges and together they lift the stretcher down. He takes the bag full of type O and brings Silva inside while James parks the ambulance a ways down the road, and places an anonymous call to emergency responders telling them where to find it. 

**

They carefully lift Silva onto the large bed in James' bedroom. Kareem insisted the couch would not do and James is too tired to argue as he collapses into a chair in the corner of the spacious master bedroom. 

He removes the gun from his belt and places it on the desk farthest from the bed and watches Kareem prop Silva up with pillows to alleviate pressure on his bandaged back, and go to work unpacking the supplies, setting up an IV drip and checking on the half-empty blood pack. 

"I called you because no one can know he's here," James says quietly after a while, when Kareem returns from the kitchen, having placed the remaining blood packs into the fridge next to half a lemon and eggs that had definitely seen their expiration date come and go.

"Has he been awake at all?"

"No. I think his hand may have twitched or something, on the way over here," James moves his own hand to demonstrate. "The doctor said he'd be out for hours."

"You look like you could use some rest yourself," Kareem points out, and James nods, feeling like absolute shit. He looks down on himself and tries to remember where he left his jacket, but thinking hurts and he feels a bit like passing out.

"I need a shower. Can you stay for a bit? Watch him?"

"Of course. Hey, James?"

James stops on his way to the en suite bathroom.

"I'm not an idiot, I know who this is. Impossible not to, with his face all over the news since the bombing and those NATO operatives got killed. I didn't recognise him at first, hair's different in the pictures, but this is the man who bombed SIS? Where you work?"

James tenses up, but tries to remain objective. "I trust you."

"I'm just saying, mate. Are you all right? Because as far as I can remember, it's your job to catch terrorists. Not give them a helping hand."

James walks over to the bed and searches for something in the night stand drawers. "You don't know the full story," he replies as he finds the handcuffs he was looking for, and secures one of Silva's hands to the iron bars of the bed.

"No, I really don't," Kareem sighs. "Listen, I'll stay for a bit, then I'll see myself out."

James nods. "Thank you."

"You'll have to change his dressings and watch him closely for signs of infection. Fever, that sort of thing."

"Pain killers?"

"In the duffel bag. You can call me if his condition changes, but that's it. I can't do anymore."

When James gets out of the shower, Kareem is gone.

**

James gets dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans and brings his most comfortable chair into the bedroom along with an opened bottle of Jack Daniels. He closes the drapes against the blinding afternoon sunlight and panoramic view of the Thames, and flops down into the chair. 

The whiskey soothes his throat, but his head is throbbing like someone was hammering into the back of his skull and he gets up to find some of those pain killers Kareem left behind. 

"You don't mind if I borrow some of these, do you?" He asks the criminal chained to his bed, who looks far too angelic than should be possible.

No response.

"I'll take that as a yes," he mutters, and washes two of them down with a gulp of brown liquid. He pulls the covers over Silva, still dressed in white hospital trousers and nothing but bandages across his scarred chest, one hand cuffed to the bed.

The darkened blood on Silva's cheek has dried to an asymmetrical pattern down his chin and neck. Black smudges of soot stains the side of his face.

James resists an urge to sweep away the blonde hair that's fallen into his eyes, and goes back to his chair. He glances at the gun on the table and leaves the bottle on the floor before settling in to watch Silva's chest rhythmically rise and fall until he, too - finally falls asleep.

**

It's night when James is startled awake from empty dreams by a scream.

No, not a scream, it was more like an anguished cry. He scrambles to his feet, the bedroom dark except for the distant city lights on the opposite side of the river, and a single stream of moonlight through an open sliver in the drapes.

James turns a lamp on next to the chair and the room is bathed in a soft, orange hue and he looks toward the bed and the source of the sounds. 

Silva is fighting his way out of the anaesthesia's firm hold on his nervous system, and breathes heavily, as if struggling to find enough oxygen for his lungs. His pupils are dilated, his eyes won't focus and his thoughts are sedated and unclear. Everything is a blur until a voice calmly speaks into his ear.

"Don't try to move. Breathe into this."

Silva is tired, so tired, and his chest aches and burns. But breathing gets easier, as if the air suddenly weighed less and he attempts to open his eyes again. This time the blur fades, slowly.

James holds the oxygen mask steady over Silva's mouth and nose until his breathing returns to normal, then puts it and the oxygen tank back on the night stand, mentally thanking Kareem for his foresight.

"You weren't joking. Life does cling to you like a bloody disease."

Silva blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to his surroundings, and scowls - first at James and his alcohol breath, then at his bandages, and finally at his cuffed hand.

"Welcome back, Mr. Silva." James gets up to stand at the edge of the bed.

" _Ja-a-a-ames_ ," Silva drawls, dragging out all the syllables so it sounded like the exasperated groan of a parent on his last ounce of patience who'd just caught his child being naughty again. Then he utters a hoarse laugh that immediately devolves into a coughing fit.

"What have you done?" He asks when it passes, eyes closed, resting his head on the pillow.

"Your plan failed, I made sure of that."

Silva attempts to sit up, but the pain sears through his upper back and he grimaces.

"Is she...?" 

"M's dead. One of your men's bullets got to her and she's dead, but not by your fucking hand."

James moves in closer, mind muddled by liquor and the pills he downed when the sun was still shining, but his speech was the very epitome of clarity as his grief poured out of him like an avalanche in the shape of bitter words.

"You didn't get her. I saved your pathetic excuse for a life to tell you that. You failed. And by Christ, I will keep you alive so that it can haunt you," he spits as he leans over Silva's face. 

"Forever."

Silva swallows hard, and nods slowly, almost to himself.

"Congratulations, James. You win."

James holds his ground and waits for the inevitable cruel quip or calm remark to follow, dripping with schadenfreude, except there's nothing. No scalding retort - in fact, the blonder man seems just as stricken with grief. Although, if it was because M was dead, or he was still alive or both - James couldn't tell.

He doesn't feel like standing any longer, and sits down on the far edge of the bed, and puts a hand on his neck, massaging his sore muscles. The headache was threatening to make its return.

Silva watches him sit, making a dent in the mattress.

"Aren't we a fucking sight," James mutters and finds the forgotten bottle of whiskey on the floor. "Probably not a stellar idea, but here, take it." 

He hands it to Silva who looks suspicious for a second, but takes a small sip with his free hand. He then suddenly seems to become aware of his surroundings. 

"This... is no hospital," he says while looking around the large, modern bedroom with ceiling to floor windows and decorating kept to a minimalist, masculine style.

"James?" he says, voice low, a memento from his usual, former mischievious tone. "Did you take me all the way back here from Scotland? To your _house_? And chain me to your bed while I was helpless and comatose?"

James can't help the chuckle that escapes his lips. "What goes around, comes around."

"No, no, this is far more impressive. I only used rope," Silva says and underlines his words by rattling the cuffs against the bed. 

"And you, 007. You were hardly comatose."

Silva hands the bottle back, and James takes another swipe. "Sounds like you're feeling better already," he says pointedly but Silva ignores the question. 

"Does your precious MI6 know about your house guest?"

"No. They think you got away."

"Oh."

"Mmh."

They sit in silence for a bit, listening to distant sounds of traffic on the bridge.

"You couldn't let me go, could you James?" Silva tuts slowly while sinking back into the soft mattress, eyelids heavy as a pleasant warmth spreads throughout his battered body, courtesy of the hard liquor. He rolls slowly over to his side and finds it slightly more comfortable, easing the pain a little. 

"And, here we are. It seems fate has a sense of humour."

"Well, I'm not laughing."

Silva goes quiet, and James realises he's drifted off to sleep again. He rises to put the bottle away in the kitchen, finds a blanket and a extra pillow for himself and burrows down into the chair, inviting sleep to overtake him once more.

**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London was back to seeming normality, all the while the turmoil in his heart waged a war with his principles. He was torn in half and suspended in time but the world kept turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets fairly dark, but I promise there's light at the end of the tunnel! Post-Skyfall 00Silva, work in progress.

James wakes at dawn and goes for a long run to clear his head and pick up some necessities from the shop while his _guest_ was still asleep. 

There was a chill in the autumn air and the world had gone back to its usual routine around him, strangers hurrying to work in noisy traffic jams and pedestrians huddling against the wind.

London was back to seeming normality, all the while the turmoil in his heart waged a war with his principles. He was torn in half and suspended in time but the world kept turning.

Amidst the feelings of loss and sorrow for M, there was a bitter, overwhelming sense of disappointment in himself. Like he'd lost faith in everything that used to matter - the job; loyalty to country and queen; the sex and the thrill of the chase. 

He barely recognised himself anymore. 

He'd left Skyfall once before, a changed man. Circumstances aligned and history repeated itself, but this time he wasn't sure if the changes were for the better, or worse.

**

James drops the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter when he gets back to his flat, and prepares a food tray and black, black coffee and heads for the bedroom. 

"Hey!" he almost barks out, sounding angrier than he actually was. 

"Are you still breathing?" He puts the tray on the desk next to the gun and opens the drapes, bathing the room in daylight.

"Hmph," Silva huffs, squinting against the sudden intrusion of light. He seems to have forgotten about his restrained hand as he tries to shield his eyes with it. 

"So it would seem," he groans, frustrated. "All thanks to you, James. My saviour and knight -" he pauses, giving Bond's unremarkable blue workout clothes courtesy of the SIS a disapproving look, "- in less than shining armour."

James puts two painkillers and a cup of black coffee on the night stand with a loud thud. 

Silva props himself up on one elbow. "I thought it was all a very bad dream," he says, and cracks his neck audibly. 

"How long are you keeping me here in this - hmm, waking nightmare? Is this your way of punishing me for my sins?"

James ignores his comments. "You need to eat something. Cheese or ham?"

Silva wrinkles his nose at the pre-packaged sandwiches James holds up. 

"No croissants?" 

"Sorry, I gave my butler the day off," James replies sourly.

"No matter," Silva shrugs. "My taste buds are not what they used to be," he continues, tonguing at his prosthetic palate.

James tosses the ham sandwich on the bed, and Silva opens the packaging and reaches for the coffee, ignoring the pills for the moment. 

"Did you save my life only to kill me with kindness, James?" he continues, eyebrows raised, and takes a small sip of the hot, black liquid.

"Hardly. Can you sit up?" James asks and hangs up a fresh pack of blood as Silva finishes eating. "Your dressings need changing."

Silva puts down the coffee and edges himself up to a seated position, using the headboard for support. He winces in pain when his shoulder momentarily slips, but quickly regains composure and brings his legs up to sit cross-legged under the covers.

"This," he exhales, finding it frustratingly tiresome simply to move to an upright position. "Would be easier with two hands."

"Nice try," James says and moves to the other side of the bed and kneels upon it, and begins cutting the bandages off with a pair of scissors. They're draped in layers around Silva's torso and shoulder, but they come off easily enough until the very last layer is peeled back, revealing a thicker, protective patch directly covering the wound.

"This is going to hurt."

James watches Silva steel himself by tightening the muscles in his scar-riddled but clearly strong back, and rips the self-adhesive, protective bandage off in one quick motion.

"Ah! _Mierda_ ," Silva groans.

James smiles at the outburst without a hint of compassion. 

He tosses the bloody bandage into a trash can and leans forward to speak in the other man's ear. "Was it good for you, too?" he taunts, and stands to find the fresh bandages in the duffel bag.

"What did _I_ ever do to _you_ ," Silva grimaces, and narrows his eyes at Bond.

James carefully unpacks a new, sterile bandage and kneels back down on the bed.

"For starters, you blew up my car," he answers flatly as he covers the stitched, reddened wound with the new bandage, using just a little more pressure than he needed to. 

"I loved that car."

Silva breathes in through his teeth and his free hand grips a pillow for a lack of anything else, till his knuckles whiten.

"You did the same to my helicopter," he hisses. 

James roughly pulls long strips of white dressings around the other man's chest and over his shoulder, fastens them with medical tape, and stands to admire his work.

"Hm," James mutters, thinking back to that night and smirks at the memory of destroying that god-awful old house and Silva's chopper in one, delightfully massive explosion.

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"That makes us even, no?"

"There is no even," he replies shortly and cleans up the trash. "And there is definitely no us."

Silva scowls and swallows the pain medication dry with ease. He lays back down to let it begin work on soothing the pulsating throb of pain in his back, and watches James move around the room. 

He stretches his docile limbs, joints cracking.

James finishes cleaning up, and heads for the door, grabbing the gun off the desk.

"You're leaving me here, Mr. Bond?" Silva asks, lips pursed. "All by myself?" 

James doesn't answer.

"And what am I to do when nature calls? Does your merciful plan to keep me captive come complete with bathroom privileges?"

James pokes his head back in through the door, and tosses an empty soda bottle on the bed.

"Pee in that."

Silva hears the front door slam shut, and stares at the soda bottle with disdain.

**

The funeral is held on a cold October day, but the ceremony is warm and dignified, and over a thousand people follow M to her final resting place. Mallory and several politicians and high-ranking public figures hold eloquently poignant eulogies. 

James is one of the pallbearers.

He feels numb as he softly places his gloved hand - a final farewell, on the casket adorned with a Union Jack and an abundance of flowers. 

When the ceremony is over, and everyone else has gone, James places two roses - the national flower of England, on her grave. 

One is red, the other is white.

**

Later that night James arrives home after shamelessly taking advantage of the open bar, and he can almost hear M's voice in his head, telling him he's a drunken fool and the thought weighs him further.

He drops his coat and scarf on the floor and walks to the bedroom. He stands silently in the doorway, and looks at Silva, unmoving under the covers.

His eyes are closed, but James knows he's not sleeping. 

What happens next unfolds to James like an out-of-body experience, like he's no longer in control of himself, lost within the anger and hurt that bubbles up to the surface. It overwhelms him, and suddenly --

\-- he's on top of Silva, straddling his hips and his hands are on the other man's neck, a deadly efficient grip constricting his trachea.

Silva's eyes startle open and they shine in the dark, but he doesn't struggle.

James tightens his grip with a look of contempt and desperation, but something in the way Silva looks up at him with utter resignation - as if he anticipated this and welcomes it - makes James stop.

He lets go as a dry sob escapes from his chest.

"I buried her today."

"You should have let me join her," Silva whispers hoarsely. 

" _Why_... can't you let me die?"

James doesn't know how to answer.

He moves off of Silva and slouches down on the bed next to him.

"I'm so bloody tired of death. I'm tired of everyone I care about dying." James pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the stinging in his eyes. 

"I've buried everyone I love." 

Silva closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "I am, too," he says quietly. "So, very _exhausted_."

James looks out the windows facing the river, and Silva opens his eyes again and manages a weak half-smile toward the agent's silhouette against the glass.

"You see? We are not so different."

"So you keep telling me. The last bloody rats."

" _Sí_. The survivors, James. But I am tired as well. I have been for fifteen, long years." 

James meets Silva's eyes in the pale dark, his face stern but the look in his eyes revealed a surprisingly fragile edge.

"Unlike you, I tire of _life_. Of living," Silva continues quietly. "Do you know what it's like, James? To be hollow?"

James looks down. "But planning your vengeance, that was enough to carry on?"

"It was."

"It gave you something to life for."

Silva nods silently.

"And now?"

"I don't know. You must tell me, James. I would not be here if not for your actions. I didn't chain myself to this bed."

"There's nothing, at all?"

"A shower would be nice."

James puts his face in his hands and laughs - a flat, desperate one, but a laugh all the same - for the first time that day.

**

"Can you walk?"

Silva wiggles his toes under the covers in response.

"Try _anything_ , anything at all and I will shoot you. For good this time." 

James bends down to unlock the handcuffs, and Silva smiles, taking out his IV and transfusion tube from his arm.

"James, even if I wanted, I am in no position to hurt you," he says and puts his arm around James' neck to stand up shakily.

"Besides, why would I try something? You make such an excellent nurse."

James rolls his eyes as he carefully takes most of the weight of the other man, one arm on Silva's around his neck, and another around the other man's lower torso to steady him without disturbing the wound. 

Silva slowly but surely manages the short few steps from the bed to the luxurious, black-tiled en suite.

"Here," James says shortly, and turns the shower on, not too hot or too cold. He doubts Silva could take any more shocks to the system at this point.

Silva tries to bend to remove his ill-fitting, generic white hospital trousers but grimaces as the action pulls on his wounded flesh, causing another sear of pain to shoot down his back and deep into his torn subdermal layers of muscle. 

James watches him fight through the pain, Silva's legs trembling slightly as he leans against the shower tiles. James feels briefly at a loss, instinctually wanting to help but not wanting to intrude.

Silva gets the trousers off eventually by loosening the string around the waist and stepping on the bottom ends with his feet until they fall right off. 

James is grateful Silva has at least got underwear on as his eyes disobey him and trail down the other man's body. 

His thighs are muscular beneath the pale skin marred by raised, but faded scar tissue. The scars on his legs were particularly long and narrow, seemingly from lengthy slashes by some cruel, sharp device. 

James swallows hard and forces himself to look away. God forbid you make the cyber terrorist feel uncomfortable, he thinks dryly to himself.

"Clean towels are next to the sink. You can manage on your own, can't you?"

Silva is leaning his shoulder against the tiled wall of the spacious shower, arms folded over his bandaged chest as he gives James a rather pitiful look and shakes his head no. 

"Christ," James sighs and takes his t-shirt off to avoid getting it soaked, but leaves his jeans on to hide the bulge hardening between his legs and just maybe retain some semblance of dignity. 

Hell, he thinks. He'd passed the point of no return miles back.

He steps into the shower and Silva forgets the stinging in his back and ache in his chest for a minute and smiles deviously, for a moment thinking of that first time.

He notices James' looks and unashamedly admires the full view of James' sculpted chest and abdomen. Better than he imagined when he'd unbuttoned those first few buttons of his tailored shirt and briefly caressed his collar bone on the island.

Maybe he could, in fact - find something to fill the emptiness.

James takes the shower head down, and points it carefully at the other man to avoid getting any of the dressings wet - but in the process getting himself completely soaked. 

"Ah, you should have known me back in those days," Silva says softly, enjoying the warm water cascading down his body. "When I was an agent, like you," he continues while carefully washing himself as best he could. 

"You would have liked him, James. The man I was." 

He's still leaning on the wall for support, erasing their miniscule height difference and their eyes are level.

"Silva..." James begins.

"Please," he interrupts James' next words. "Use my real name."

James has to think back to remember it. M only said it once.

" _Tiago._ "

Silva closes his eyes and smiles, as if James saying his real name was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

"I don't know the man you were," James continues, moving in toward the other man's lips, and brings a hand up to gently rub at the dried blood on Silva's cheek with his thumb, washing it away with the warm water.

"But, God help me -I've grown fond of the man you _are_."

The blonder man's hair curls against his neck in the damp shower steam and James leans in, finally giving in to the urge to run his fingers through it and it's soft against his hand; and Silva's full lips quiver slightly as James presses his own against them and softly tongues his lips apart. 

Silva doesn't hesitate to return the pressure, and moans deeply as James gently cups his cheek. Silva lets a hand move up to retrace his touch from that first time, that day that seemed so long ago - lingering over James' scar and settling on his dripping, wet chest.

When they move apart, Silva sways a little on his feet - the toll the blood loss had taken still visible in his paler than usual complexion. 

"Quite the effect you have, 007," Silva remarks shakily.

"Easy," James says, steadying him by the hips, and quickly moves to help him rinse off the last of the soapy residue. 

They step out of the shower and James wraps Silva up in towels and a bathrobe and guides him firmly back to the bed. 

He hooks the drip and transfusion tubes back into Silva's arm, and contemplates for a moment what to do with the cuffs.

Silva looks dazed but content, for now - his bleached hair darker than usual from the residual moisture as he let's James pull the covers back over him without a word.

James decides better safe than sorry and clicks them back on his wrist. 

He is about to leave to find the couch in his living room that he'd slept on these past few nights, but he figures his bed was big enough for the both of them.

Silva's gun lies in a drawer in the night stand closest to Bond - the remaining three bullets unused in the gun's chamber.

**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lets one finger trace the outline of the scar on James' chest, like he could trace the outline all the way back to capture the memory of how it happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's rated explicit. Post-Skyfall 00Silva, work in progress.

Sometime during the night, Silva wakes briefly from dark dreams and his chest is damp with sweat. 

The dreams, they were always the same. 

He is young, only a boy and playing on a beach just like he used to as a child. His grandmother waves to him under the shade of coconut palms, warm smile and wisdom in every wrinkle. He runs into the waves, hot sun on his tanned neck. The waves wash over him and the water gets deeper until the sand gives way under his feet. He is swallowed and can't breathe, the waves like a thousand hands dragging him mercilessly to the bottom. The dreamscape shifts and slowly builds walls around him, shaping a room made of stone and grey bones, and there is no air. The little boy screams but his voice is gone.

Silva exhales, ignoring the stab of pain in his bruised lung and tries to slow his pounding heart when he feels the touch of a warm hand from behind. James calmly rests his hand on the dip of his lower back and edges close till their legs brush and his hot breath ghosts over Silva's neck, and it's comforting and real and and they stay like this until the other man breathes easy yet again.

"My debrief's in the morning," James says.

"What will you tell them?" Silva's voice is neutral; unreadable.

"I'll answer their questions, play along with Mallory's bureaucratic bullshit. He needs a quick resolve, to save face. I'll play along."

"Secrets must be protected," Silva says thoughtfully. 

"Yes."

"Or, you would lose your job."

"And you," James replies. "I'd lose you."

"Perhaps they would let us share a cell?" Silva suggests, but the thought of prison - another cage to wither away in, one he couldn't open with intangible lines of code - lingered at the edge of his psyche. James feels the other man silently tense up, the nightmare fresh in memory.

"You're never seeing the inside of a cell ever again. Not if I can help it."

**

The newly rebuilt MI6 offices feel different, somehow. It was new yet still the same. James walks down a spotless white corridor, dressed impeccably in a dark navy suit, headed to a room especially equipped to handle agents and their post-mission debriefs.

James had been through enough of these to know that his every word, intonation, minor change in body language or pupil dilation would be studied, recorded and scrutinised. It was standard procedure to monitor the agent's mental stability and stress levels, only this time it wasn't going to be anything like the ones he'd done before. 

This time, James had something to hide and _she_ wasn't around anymore to overlook his mistakes, defend his continued habit of disobeying orders and to argue his worth.

He opens the door and the room is empty save for two chairs and a table, all the high-tech equipment hidden under the surfaces and in the walls and James knows Mallory, Tanner and probably a small army of so-called experts and advisors are watching through the large, two-way glass.

A female handler enters and motions for him to sit. "Have a seat, agent. This shouldn't take long."

"That's what you people always say," James remarks and they sit down on opposite ends of the table. Business as usual.

"007," the female handler says and opens a rather thick folder on the table. "This is your initial debrief for the events that occurred during Operation Skyfall."

"Oh, is that what you're calling it," James huffs. 

"Please state your name for the record, agent."

"Bond. James Bond."

"Commencing interview at," she continues and looks at her watch, "09:43." 

James glances briefly toward the glass and keeps his expression blank.

"How did the target - Rodriguez, Tiago, alias Raoul Silva and former agent with MI6 - escape from the Skyfall estate under your watch?"

Christ, they certainly weren't wasting any time, James thinks coldly.

"One of his men jumped me, we fought. I killed him, then continued after the target."

"To the chapel?"

"Yes, but I was too late. He was gone."

"You stated you saw him drive away in one of the Land Rovers his men parked at the gate, correct? But it was quite dark that night, wasn't it?"

James narrows his eyes slightly. "Is this a debrief or an interrogation?"

"We just need to get all the facts straight. A high-priority target wanted for acts of terrorism against this nation remains at large and you're the last agent who had visual confirmation."

"I have excellent night vision. I know what I saw."

"You then pursued the target in a second Rover?"

James nods. "He'd already covered a good distance and I lost sight of him. He most likely had a second chopper waiting."

The handler looks through her papers. "The testimony from our primary witness, one William Kincade, gamekeeper of the Skyfall estate, does confirm this line of events as you've explained them."

Kincade kept his word, James thinks with silent gratitude.

"All right, Mr. Bond," she continues and folds her hands on the table. "Final question, just to clarify a small detail."

"Yes?"

"Our operatives on the ground noted a significant pooling of blood on the floor inside the chapel. Our analysts are running the samples for DNA as we speak."

"A lot of bullets were fired. Bloodshed sort of comes with the territory," James remarks sarcastically.

"Naturally, but Mr. Kincade wasn't injured nor were you and it was too far from the body to belong to our late head of offices. Whomever lost that amount of blood must've been wounded severely, probably suffering a loss of consciousness."

"Hm," Bond mutters, unflinching.

"You're saying the DNA results will not show the blood belongs to Mr. Silva? Because according to you he was capable of driving a small truck at major speeds across the Scottish moors in the middle of the night, eluding capture by one of our most _infamous_ agents."

"Your files should've informed you that he's extremely adept at staying alive," James says, voice flat.

"Well. That'll be all 007," the handler says with a professionally detached smile. "Your next and final debrief is scheduled 72 hours from now."

James leaves MI6 with a strong feeling that the world was closing in around him. A world that would never be the same after Skyfall turned to ashes. 

**

"So," Silva says, grinning as James unlocks his wrist, tossing the cuffs away. "You have come to realise I'm not a flight risk?"

"You can leave if you want to, but I'm fairly sure you wouldn't get very far," James replies with a smirk, the earlier events of the day largely forgotten. "Besides, I was hoping you'd stay, at least... Until you're fully healed." 

"Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, yes?" Silva smiles, rubbing his wrist.

"Something like that. How do you feel?" James asks as he removes the transfusion tube from the vein in Silva's arm and takes down the last, empty blood pack. 

Silva presses a tissue over where the needle went into his arm. "The room no longer spins around when I stand," he says, making a rotating motion with a finger to illustrate. 

"I called an acquaintance this morning," James says while searching around for a pack of sterile scissors in the duffel bag. "Kareem, he's a retired doctor. He helped me get a hold of the medical supplies when you were..." James trails off, looking away from Silva's gaze. 

"Unconscious? Helpless? At your mercy?" Silva suggests, smiling at James' obvious unease.

"Anyway, he said enough time's passed for your stitches to be removed," James continues and finds the scissors, rips the packaging off and holds them up. "He said to use these."

Silva stares blankly at the scissors, then frowns with determination and turns to give James better access. "Do it," he instructs and folds his legs in what James assumes is some sort of meditation pose.

James begins unwrapping his bandages. "There's more painkillers left, you know. You've barely taken any. I could make you a drink--"

"No, no. Thank you, James," Silva interrupts. "Physical pain is like an old friend to me. A constant. I welcome it."

James understands all to well, and sighs as he removes the final bandage from Silva's back, revealing the nearly-healed wound, now a bruised and red elongated mark, the sutures barely visible. James points a lamp to see what he's doing, and goes to work.

Silva keeps his eyes closed, and doesn't move or make a sound as James cuts through the clear surgical sutures, as carefully as possible, pulling it out piece by piece. When he's done, he places a clean adhesive dressing over the tender flesh to protect it while it heals completely, and leans in to place a soft kiss on Silva's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against the other man's scarred skin, hating how he was responsible for the newest one.

Silva turns to face him on the bed and touches the side of James' cheek, looking at him intently as if studying his face and memorising every shade of blue that combined to give colour to his eyes; the shape of his lips and the faded scar above his brow - then he moves in to capture those lips with his own. James sighs into the kiss as Silva licks into his open mouth and sucks lightly on his lower lip, caressing his neck with gentle strokes.

James tugs his tie loose and shrugs off his suit jacket before Silva moves with him down onto the bed, straddling his hips and grinding himself into the other man's crotch. James grabs a fistful of blonde hair and Silva moans appreciatively against his lips, freeing his hands to tear at James' white dress shirt.

"Oh, fuck," James moans as Silva reaches down to pull his trousers and his own black briefs off and grinds his cock against his, stroking their lengths together, slow and meticulously. James spreads his legs further open and hooks them together around the other man's waist. Silva kisses up James' chest, pausing to swirl his tongue around and tease each nipple, and travels up past the scar to suck gently on the sensitive skin below James' earlobe.

"Do you want me inside of you, James? Hmm?" he whispers against his neck, one finger pressing against his hole. James groans and pushes his ass upwards, eager to be opened and filled. "Well?" Silva continues, adding another finger, gently circling around without putting them inside. "Do you want to show me," he breathes against his skin,"- just how sorry you are?"

"Yes," James hisses, and tugs on his grip in Silva's hair, earning a quiet, sinister laugh from the man on top of him. "Yes. Stop bloody teasing."

Silva obeys and works him open with two- then three fingers, slowly preparing him as James moans and thrusts his ass upwards, eager for more, desperate for Silva to go further in, to hit that spot deep inside.

Silva removes his fingers and enjoys the view of James panting beneath him, ready and on the verge of pleading. He sends a questioning look toward the night stand and James nods - and he reaches into the top drawer to find the lube, opens the cap and slicks up his length before teasing the tip against James' ass.

The blonder man enters him with a deep-throated moan and fucks James in long, steady strokes, slow as to not put any strain on the tender muscles that still ached where the knife sliced through in his back. He brings a hand up to find James' hand and entwines their fingers while angling his cock to perfectly hit James' prostate with every stroke. 

"Aahh, ah, _Christ_ , Tiago," James pants as drops of pre-come leak from his cock onto his stomach, and Silva smirks in approval upon hearing James call him by his real name, and he starts moving impossibly slow inside him, the friction setting off sparks in his head and James' hand grips Silva's even tighter as he clenches his ass around Silva's cock. 

Silva leans down to kiss him deeply, desperately, edging close to the end, caught and suspended somewhere in that beautiful, heightened sense of being right before the climax overtakes him. 

" _Come for me_ , James," Silva says, hushed voice against his lips. With every stroke he feels James' tighten around him; and James comes with a guttural groan, hot come dripping down onto his abs and stomach, and Silva follows shortly, filling him from the inside before finally collapsing on the sheets.

They rest together for a while, breathing in the quiet stillness. The drapes are open and the lights of London glow brightly outside the windows, and Silva stirs a little. He lets one finger trace the outline of the scar on James' chest, like he could trace the outline all the way back to capture the memory of how it happened. 

"You saw death in the eye and lived, just like me. Life clings to us," he says, voice low and brows furrowed in thought.

"Yes. Changes you, doesn't it?"

Silva nods, slowly. 

James leans up on one elbow and meets Silva's eyes. "Whatever it is, this _something_ that we have... I have to know if you're in it like I am. Because I am in it too far to go back."

"James," Silva says, low and unwavering. "You and me? It is all I have left."

"And... It's real?"

Silva moves his hand from the scar over to the left side of James' chest and stops over his heart to feel the strong muscle inside pulsating rhythmically, shooting life into every vein. 

" _Sí_ ," he smiles. " _Es real_."

**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva waves a dismissive hand in the air. "If I am to linger on in this mortal coil for you, James, the least you can do is let me borrow your computer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Skyfall 00Silva, work in progress.

Silva wakes to a grey, cold morning. He shivered as he was reminded of how much he hated the climate in sour, old England. He'd grown accustomed to the largely humid, subtropical weather that dominated the South China Sea. Summers were long and hot, occasionally interrupted by loud but refreshing thunderstorms. Winters were mild, bringing merely a chill in the ocean winds. 

Mid-October London was bitter and the rain showers not at all refreshing. He huddles under the covers for a while, wondering if James was too cheap for central heating, spending his not-insignificant double-O salary all on tailored suits and overpriced liqour. James was still asleep at his side, apparently not in the least bothered by the cold.

Silva walks bare feet to the bathroom and takes generous advantage of the hot water in James' shower. He dries off, wrapping a towel around his waist and turns around to look at his still-bandaged wound in the large, horizontal mirror. He touches it carefully, inciting not much pain at all, then experimentally stretches his shoulders and arms, finding it not completely uncomfortable.

He stares towards his reflection in the mirror, dragging a thumb across his jaw and noting with pursed lips he was desperately in need of a shave, before proceeding with the routine care of the prosthesis disguising his disfigurement and lending his voice a semblance of normality.

He removes the silicone and titanium shape moulded perfectly to his hollow, mangled upper jaw and palate and rinses the prosthesis under running water, for a lack of the usual medical antiseptic solution. He cleans the surface gently with clean hands, and lets it air-dry for a minute when he hears quiet movements behind him.

"Does it hurt?" 

James moves to stand behind him, sleepy eyes and hair as messy as the short-cropped style would allow. His strong, tanned torso contrasted against Silva's paler, scar-riddled body. His scars seemed miniscule in comparison. "I mean, when you put it in?"

"No. Imagine... a joint cracking as your bones connect." Silva meets the other man's eyes in the mirror and his voice is deeper and muddled, like a broken instrument without the device inside his oral cavity. "No pain, but an involuntary function of the body."

Silva places the prosthesis back with a moist clicking sound, his distorted left side filling out and returning to normal. "It goes into place like a resettling of stiff bones," he finishes, voice whole once more.

James puts his arms close around Silva's hips, a sleepy warmth rising off him in comforting waves. They remain still for a while.

"Make coffee," James says, breaking the silence. "I'll get breakfast."

Silva's expression turns mild, almost hopeful. James huffs, smirking.

"Yes, all right. I'll get your bloody croissants this time."

**

James comes home to find Silva typing on his own laptop on the living room sofa, and freezes momentarily, blurting out his first thought without considering his approach.

"What are you doing?" There was a strained edge to his voice.

Silva looks up from the screen and smiles secretively at James' expression, half mild shock and half suspicion. "Relax, James."

"Stop telling me to relax. I hate that," James mumbles and puts one bag of groceries and another from a Chinese takeout place around the corner down on the table.

Silva waves a dismissive hand in the air. "If I am to linger on in this mortal coil for you, James, the least you can do is let me borrow your computer."

"And my clothes," James says pointedly, with a look towards the black, button-down sweater and an older pair of grey jeans Silva was wearing. His eyes lingered appreciatively where the v-neck revealed the sculpted curve of his Adam's apple and collarbones.

"I have my obligations to attend to," Silva says and hungrily devours the French pastry James hands him.

"Just make sure you don't draw any unnecessary attention," James says, sitting down on the wide, expensive leather sofa. "No interrupting spy satellites, or disrupting the global economy."

Silva rolls his eyes. "Don't patronise me, James. This is what I do."

"Right. Sorry."

"MI6 didn't find me until I wanted you to. Don't leave footprints unless you want to be followed."

"You hide in the shadows."

"We do, James. _We_ do."

**

It's nearly evening when the sun glimmers through the heavy skies outside, and James checks his phone for missed calls, but there weren't any. His final debrief was tomorrow morning, and usually they would confirm by phone the time and location. James kept the phone on his person, just in case.

He opens the bag of Chinese food and sets it out on the table along with a couple of beers in front of Silva, who'd barely taken his eyes off the screen all day. From what James could tell, he was simply answering e-mails.

"Dinner's served."

Silva takes the offered plate without comment, and folds the laptop screen down. He grabs a pair of chopsticks from the plastic bag and effortlessly, with practised ease places them between his thumb and fingers.

James looks at the fork in his own hand, then puts it down in favour of the second pair of wooden chopsticks. He focuses intently on the task at hand for a while -making more of a mess than actually stilling his hunger- until he hears Silva laughing next to him.

"Are you having difficulties, James?" He asks, grinning wide.

"Wipe that grin off your face," James responds, only halfway serious. "Unlike you, I haven't lived in China for ten years."

"Here," Silva says, moving to sit closer next to James' side. "No, like _this_ ," he continues, while placing his hand over James', guiding his fingers around the sticks with his own until he's holding them properly. "Much better," Silva nods as James gets a hang of it.

"Were you happy there?" James asks and clicks opens two beers.

Silva seems to ponder the question for a bit before answering. "Yes, very much. But, the memories are tainted. Bittersweet."

James nods, quietly. "It seems every corner of this earth holds a memory we'd rather forget."

"I often wonder if we choose our paths. These lives. Or, if they choose us?" Silva says solemnly.

"I believe we make our own choices," James replies, turning to face the other man. "And, making your own choices always has a bright side to it," he continues while glancing down to the elegant curve of Silva's lips.

"Hm? And what is that?"

"We can choose to make new memories," James whispers against Silva's lips before crushing into them with his own. James leans his body down over the other man, and settles between his thighs on the sofa as Silva moans low into the kiss and angles his head to let James' tongue lick deeper.

**

A phone call from MI6 interrupts them with a loud ringing noise, and James reluctantly climbs over the sofa to answer it in the hallway. Silva opens the laptop again when he's gone, and finishes replying to an e-mail, encrypting it, then hitting send, bouncing it off multiple hidden servers located all across the globe. James either didn't know, or didn't care, but he was reaching out to certain well-trusted contacts who could eventually assist him in leaving the country; covertly sending out small ripples in the shadowy waters of global, hacker networks, safely knowing only the right people could interpret them.

He had no plans set in stone as of yet, but he always liked knowing his options were open, and the day would eventually come when he was no longer protected by the fragile alibi of one of MI6's own. For now, hiding in plain sight was working well for him, but these things had a way of stepping out into the harsh light of day. 

They always did.

**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good thing she couldn't see the marks underneath his clothes, James thinks, then attempts to clear his mind of how Silva had almost religiously claimed every part of him with his lips just a few hours earlier, possessively branding his body as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit special to me, a lot of feels were had writing it. :) There's about two chapters left to this story, so thank you all for reading and sticking with me.

"The final debrief's still on for tomorrow morning."

James tosses the phone on the table and sinks back down into the sofa, glancing over at Silva's hands moving deftly across the keyboard.

"Will they clear you for service?" Silva asks without looking up.

James sighs, running a hand through his short, blonde hair. "I don't know."

"Do you want them to?"

"Look, Tiago..." James begins, but his words are interrupted.

"If they make you choose," Silva says, finally looking up from the screen and his eyes are sharp and his expression hard, as if already prepared for rejection. "Would you give me up in exchange for keeping your job?"

"I honestly don't believe they'd offer me a deal like that. Not at this point," James replies, shaking his head. "Why? Where's this coming from?" He looks Silva straight in the eyes, questioning, searching for answers in the other man's face. "You knew?" James says with sudden insight and glances at the computer in Silva's lap. "You knew they found your blood in the chapel?"

"I had a little peek into an analyst's very poorly encrypted files, yes."

James doesn't bother asking how. "So, you know they have evidence to suggest you had help escaping."

Silva nods. "And you're number one on their very short suspect list."

"Explains why that first debrief felt more like an interrogation."

"You should have told me," Silva says, quietly.

"I didn't want to worry you, I was going to find a way to fix it."

"How?"

"I don't bloody know," James exclaims. "I would've figured something out. And even if they offer me a deal tomorrow, I won't take it, you know that."

"Hm," Silva mutters inexplicably. "You're their best agent, they will not want to lose you. M's favorite blunt instrument," Silva laughs humorlessly. "You know too much and you'll always be theirs."

James suddenly leans in close, placing a gentle hand on Silva's cheek. "Listen to me," he says softly, letting his thumb graze over Silva's jaw line. "I stopped being their blunt instrument the moment I didn't pull the trigger that night. I had your gun in my hand, pointed at your head but I didn't pull that damn trigger. That was my choice, and I don't regret it." 

Silva looks intently back at James for a moment, before a shadow of a smirk plays on his lips and his eyes light up mischievously. 

James furrows his brows, momentary confusion written across his face, before he inhales deeply. "That was a test, wasn't it?" he says and leans slowly back on the sofa. "All these questions? Thinking I'd hand you over? You were testing me," James shakes his head in indignant disbelief.

"I was curious to see what you'd say without pretence. But I've never doubted your loyalties," Silva says, smiling wide and self-satisfied. "I guess you really do love me, Mr. Bond."

"No, I hate you," James says bluntly, crossing his arms in resignation. "And your bloody mind games."

"Your intent to protect me is sweet, James," Silva continues. "But this does not change the fact that MI6 have evidence to support their suspicions of you," Silva says and puts away the laptop. "They will confront you about this tomorrow. How will you explain it?"

"I'll think of something. If that's all they've got on me, we're safe for now."

"Maybe you shouldn't go in. Maybe we can leave, tonight?" Silva asks, thinking of the arrangements he'd already set in motion.

"No, that will only confirm their suspicion. And they'd come after us. They'd never stop."

"Perhaps. But tomorrow, they will try to break you. To make you confess, yes?"

"I know all the tricks. I should; I've been in this game long enough. They can't break me." 

Silva looks momentarily lost in thought, as if an all-consuming memory suddenly resurfaced and gripped his mind like a cold, steel claw. James puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly before lightly thumbing at a mole right above the shirt collar on his exposed neck.

"I won't betray you like she did."

**

"Hold the lift!"

James holds the elevator doors open as Eve enters, smartly dressed in a black pencil skirt and a dark blue blouse. He felt like a stranger, a passing ghost through the MI6 building, even more so than last time, but Eve was a friendly sight. 

"Thank you, 007," she smiles, clutching a stack of paper folders and slightly out of breath.

"Which floor?"

"Same as you."

The rooms used for debriefing agents where James was headed, was also home to several server rooms storing classified materials. James was tense, he knew he'd have to be on guard and watch his words extremely carefully. His future -more importantly, Silva's future- was at stake. His colleagues could be the very people to take it away from him.

Eve sends him a mildly concerned look. "How are you, Bond?" She knew he still had a debrief to pass and wasn't yet cleared for active duty, but the tragic passing of the head of the service was still fairly recent and heavy on everyone's minds.

"Good," James smiles, and hopes she doesn't notice the strain of it. "Ready to get back to normal."

"Of course," she nods, shifting the stack of files over to her other arm and turns to look at the descending floor numbers. "It seems you're already well on your way," she says, smirking slightly.

"How do you mean?"

"You may want to pull your collar up a little more," she says, eyebrow quirked.

James turns to the mirrored back wall of the lift and sees the side of his neck adorned with a few, faded but still visible marks from the night before. He huffs under his breath, and takes her advice, pulling up his shirt collar to cover them. 

Good thing she couldn't see the marks underneath his clothes, James thinks, then attempts to clear his mind of how Silva had almost religiously claimed every part of him with his lips just a few hours earlier, possessively branding his body as his own.

The doors open, and they exit the lift. "Good luck in there," she says.

James smiles at her. "Thank you. Take care of yourself, Eve," he finishes, and turns to walk away. 

She thinks his choice of words are a little odd and wonders why his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and she stands for a moment to watch him until he's no longer within sight.

** 

The four different CCTV feeds scan and visualise on the laptop screen in separate windows, and Silva is almost disappointed at how easy it was to gain access. He's sprawled out on James' sofa, computer on his lap, perfectly coifed blonde hair, dressed in dark suit trousers and a white, sleeveless shirt.

After he got through the firewalls and encrypted layers of code -which only took him twenty minutes, the rest was child's play. Expertly targeted attacks on the security network revealed a vulnerability in the firmware controlling the cameras and by exploiting it, he got in undetected. 

Q-branch still had a lot to learn, and clearly -improving the security in place to stop people like him from continuously piggybacking their CCTV streams- wasn't the highest item on the government funded priorities list.

He sees the debriefing room from four different angles on the feeds, one table in the middle, two chairs. The door opens and Mallory walks in, followed by James whom he motions to sit.

Silva continues to probe the networks for vulnerabilities and potentially useful entry points while watching, and listening.

**

James sits down on the chair in the debriefing room, a small voice in the back of his mind asking why it's a different room from last time. This room had no two-way mirror, and the walls were bare, save for the security cameras that they had made no attempt to conceal. 

The gloves were off, he thinks and steels his cold, blue eyes toward the new M.

"Agent Bond, let's not waste time on pretence and polite civility," M says and sits down opposite the other man. "We both know that's of no use at this point."

"Do we?"

M ignores the comment. "This is no longer a debrief, but an internal investigation of a double-O agent suspected of harbouring a fugitive wanted for acts of terrorism. Do you understand and comply to further questioning?"

"Yes."

"The results of the DNA test on the blood samples recovered from the chapel at Skyfall -which you were informed of at your first debrief- have come back," he continues, and turns over a piece of paper lying on the table. "I have the results here."

James stares blankly at the paper.

"You know what it's going to say, 007. Don't you?"

James doesn't respond.

"The DNA belongs to Tiago Rodriguez, and the quantity of blood documented say there is no way in hell he walked out of there on his own. Feel free to interject at any time," he continues, voice hard and unrelenting. 

"No, thank you, it seems you've got it all figured out," James replies behind clenched teeth.

"You said he drove off in one of the jeeps, and you pursued him, correct?" M rises from his chair and walks to stand facing the wall for a moment, before turning around.

"Well, we found one of the Rovers abandoned at a nearby hospital. Inside of the vehicle we recovered yet more blood matching Mr. Silva's DNA. And _your_ fingerprints." 

James briefly remembers his exhausted, disoriented state that night and his memory is muddled in his mind, all except the single piercing thought that drove him on; _don't let him die_.

"Bond," M says and leans his hands on the table. "I will extend you the professional courtesy of a chance to come clean, right here and now."

James feels momentarily at a loss, then laughs quietly under his breath. "Do I have a choice?" he asks. "Considering you've already got guards outside that door."

" _Why_ , Agent Bond?" M asks intently. "Explain to me why, please."

James meets the older man's disbelieving eyes unflinchingly. "Because sometimes a trigger needs to be pulled. And sometimes... It doesn't."

M sighs heavily, shaking his head at the agent in front of him. "Where is he?" he asks quietly.

"I can't tell you that."

"Bond, I'm trying to help you, and I'd rather not make this any worse than it has to be, but----"

"He's not a threat anymore."

"For God's sake, Bond!" Mallory slams a hand into the table with a loud bang. "The man is a cold blooded killer!"

"So am I." James swallows hard, chest pounding with withheld emotion and restrained anger. "You know that. After all, you're the ones who made us."

"I'll give you one last chance to tell me where he is," M says while rubbing his temple with one hand, and making a motion toward the door with the other, and three armed security guards pile into the room.

James looks at the guards, knowing full well if he really wanted to leave, they wouldn't be able to stop him. Escaping the building entirely, that was another matter.

"I'm sorry M, I don't know where he is."

M nods to the guards, and two of them position themselves behind James while the third places handcuffs on his wrists. James smiles at the sight of the cuffs, feeling strangely like things were coming to full circle.

"Alright, Bond," M says calmly. "Have it your way. I can't help you any longer." 

M walks to stand in front of the door. "You should know one thing, however. We've sent an armed Special Forces Unit to your flat."

"What?" The blood in James' veins goes cold, and his body momentarily numb.

"If that's where you've helped him hide, we'll get him. Shouldn't be long now," M continues with a glance at his watch. 

James looks at M, wide eyed -the pent up anger and frustration tearing at the edge of his brain for control- his mind racing through possible scenarios that could get him out of that room, but he quickly realises there aren't any.

There wasn't time.

He decides on what he always relied upon and what never failed him -his default, his constant; violence. He head butts the first guard behind him and sends a knee into the second guard's sternum, and manages to get a choke hold on the third with his cuffed hands before a gun is pointed at his skull.

At that moment, James looks into the lens of one of the visible CCTV cameras mounted high on the wall. 

The other two guards move to overtake him as he yells toward it.

"GET OUT. _NOW._ "

**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silva doesn’t die, James aids and abets a wanted terrorist and MI6 grow suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! There could be an epilogue at some point, but for now it's complete.

The counter-terrorism unit with the Special Air Service work to clear the street and cordon off the area surrounding it, on classified orders from the Secret Service and the head of MI6. The 12-man team in black combat gear and bullet proof vests, armed with assault weapons break open the front door of James' flat, the suspected hideout of the terrorist responsible for bombing the SIS building just three months ago.

"Team One has entered the building," the assault specialist coordinator communicates directly to M, as the team toss smoke bombs inside the flat. "First sweep initiated."

They spread out through the rooms, boots heavy against the hardwood floors. Two men enter the bedroom, another kicks open the bathroom door. Assault rifles scan every inch of the rooms in the evaporating smoke. " _Clear!_ "

"What's your status?" Mallory asks from the interrogation room back at MI6. "Can you confirm capture of the target?"

Identical shouts of confirmed cleared spaces are heard from the kitchen and living area. "Initial sweep complete," the coordinator speaks into his ear piece. "No sign of the target," he continues and orders his men to search the flat thoroughly for any leads.

"I repeat, target not in custody."

**

The guards restraining James place him back down on the chair, and he obeys, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. From the look on M's face, Silva was already gone. James assumed he'd hacked the CCTV feed and watched everything, and he'd clearly understood what was going to happen. James watches M pace back and forth, listening to information coming in through his ear piece, and James can't help a satisfied smirk forming at the edge of his lips. 

"Right, keep on searching," M says to the SAS unit. "I want that place turned inside out."

He drags the second chair out with a screeching noise of iron against concrete, and sits down opposite James again. "So," he begins. "It would seem our _friend_ knew we were coming."

"So it would seem," James replies.

"Your brazen attempt to warn him just now was quite admirable, albeit superfluous. It's just too bad he obviously doesn't care for you in equal manner."

"Really?" James raises his eyebrows in mock-curiosity.

"You see, 007--- Actually, I should probably stop calling you by your number, seeing as you're never going to be an agent with Her Majesty's Service ever again," M says, directing calculated psychological punches towards the cuffed man. "That's the thing about terrorists and criminals. They'll sell you out for the highest price. And the winning bid is always to save their own skin. After everything you seem to have done for him, he still left without you. He's gone and you're here, in government custody."

James doesn't reply, mentally fighting a battle against letting M's words influence his thoughts and planting seeds of doubt. "Keep talking, Mallory," he says quietly. "I don't care what happens to me."

"Christ, Bond, "M shakes his head. "All you're doing is hurting yourself. Do you really think a man like Mr. Silva cares anything at all about loyalty?"

James mulls the question over in his mind for a moment, and thinks of how Silva chose death in captivity over revealing national secrets to a foreign state, how he swallowed poison out of loyalty and love, and suffered endlessly for her betrayal--- and thinks yes, he cares.

"I think he knows more about loyalty than any one of us ever will," James says.

M looks at him incongruously and stands up, walks toward the CCTV cameras and pulls the cords connecting them to the system, and motions towards the guards. "You two, stand guard outside the door. And you," he points at the third guard. "Stay here, keep him cuffed and don't let him out of your sight." 

M turns to exit the door with one last look toward James. "Let him stew in here for the night."

James watches him leave and listens to the heavy, steel door electronically seal shut.

**

The hours pass slowly and James watches them go by in silence, listening to the quiet hum of the white phosphorus lights above. They let him keep his watch, so he knows it's past midnight, and dark outside this windowless room inside this iron and brick building that used to be his familiar headquarters.

He tries to focus his mind and rest, and not let his thoughts stray into the murky waters that fed the seeds of doubt M's words inevitably planted. With every passing hour, those waters got darker but he refuses be dragged down into them, to believe that Silva-- _Tiago_ , would just leave. Not after everything, not after baring his scars and finding solace in each other's mirrored tragedies and in the symmetry of their wounds. They were two broken pieces who fit, made whole by proximity. His words echo in James' head, like a promise to honour a dying wish-- " _You and me? It's all I have left._ "

That's why, when the heavy door gives a quiet click and suddenly swings open, James doesn't hesitate. There's a low hum and the power cuts out, initiating a switch to backup, emergency lights and they flood the interrogation room with a dark red hue.

James takes out the first guard posted inside the room, and quickly exits to knock out the remaining two posted outside, and relieves them of their firearms. He's about to manoeuvre over the unconscious bodies, when one of the guards' service radios buzz into life and a familiar voice speaks through the crackling white noise.

"Hello, James."

James exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding in, and grins while taking the radio from the guard, and turns to face the nearest active CCTV camera in the hallway.

"What took you so long?" He asks, holding down the communication button on the radio and peering up towards the blinking camera in the red gloom.

"James," Silva continues, voice muddled through the buzzing but his words are clear and demanding. "We are talking on a safe line, but only for a few more seconds. Leave the building through the north exit. Parked outside is a black Audi, no plates. The keys are in the ignition."

James listens intently while placing a second gun into his belt.

"Drive six miles north to the Northolt airfield."

"That's a military station," James protests.

"Yes, James" Silva answers impatiently, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "There is no more time, you must go now. I'll be waiting for you."

**

James navigates the hallways and finds the north staircase leading down to ground level, and leaves MI6 without resistance. With Silva jamming their communications and blocking their security feeds, they were blinded and had no way of knowing which exit he escaped from or how. 

The cold night air is refreshing against James' skin, and he quickly spots the parked vehicle, no plates like he said. He doesn't stop to wonder who parked it there, but gets in and starts the engine. Driving with handcuffs proves to be a small challenge, but he remembers how he did it once in Colombia and soon he gets the hang of it.

The London streets are mostly empty as the glowing clock dials on his dashboard hit 2:09, the shop lights flying past his window in a blur as he roars the Audi through the city and drives onto the M4 leading to Greenford and eventually, the Northolt Royal Air Force Station.

He frequently peers into his rear-view mirror for any cars following him, but he seems to be all in the clear as he drives through an open gate in the high fenced military area. He drives slowly through the dark, wondering if this was really the right place to be right now and dims his head lights, but he doesn't see a living soul.

He keeps going past two large hangars, until he reaches open space behind them, and parks the car, turning off the lights. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he realises he's parked right on the airstrip, and slowly, the outline of a small airplane appears in the middle of the asphalt runway, gently reflecting in the clouded moonlight.

James gets out of the car as the small jet suddenly illuminates the airstrip in between them with small beacon lights under its wings and rear tail, and the side door opens to descend into a small staircase hovering right above the ground.

James walks in front of the car to casually lean against the bonnet, cuffed hands pensively folded in front of him as he watches Silva approach. 

"James," Silva grins with an understated sense of satisfaction and genuine warmth. He's wearing a white shirt with a black, silk scarf tied into a cravat underneath a long, dark wool trench coat."You look well," he notes with a cheeky look to James' cuffed wrists. "My partner in crime, hm?"

"Glad to see you got out safely," James replies dryly with an appreciative look down the other man's impeccably dressed form.

"And you," Silva nods.

"I had excellent help," James continues while bringing his cuffed hands up to needlessly adjust Silva's cravat, fingers brushing against his warm skin. "The best."

Silva remains still, keenly watching James with glinting eyes in the orange light.

"M said you'd left without me," James says.

"Hah!" Silva laughs shortly. "Did he?"

"I guess he doesn't really know you like I do," James smirks, and puts his hands down. "Any chance of getting me out of these?"

"Perhaps later," Silva says, stroking his chin with his fingers and leaning in to close the space between them. "They look so much better on you."

"What? Is this payback for----"

"Shhh," Silva interrupts James' words, silencing them by claiming his mouth in a deep, urgent kiss. James grabs at Silva's coat as much as he can reach as the other man makes a noise in his throat that goes straight to James' cock. They breathlessly pull apart, and Silva smiles as he turns to look at his privately owned jet and signals to the pilot to prepare for flight.

He turns back to James who looks mildly impressed with the seemingly limitless scope of Silva's resources and ingenuity. 

"Are you ready for boarding?" Silva asks, holding out a hand to lead the way.

James feels the stark night breeze cool the damp sweat on his chest, inhales the English autumn air for what could be the last in a very long time, and nods. "Were are we headed?" he curiously asks, walking alongside his _Tiago_ the last few steps toward the small jet, engines building in noise and power.

Silva smiles into James' eyes, those bluest of eyes that could be so cold and deadly but also gentle and knowing and he feels alight with a new kind of life that he doesn't hate; doesn't despise, and it's liberating in a way he thinks death could never be, and one day perhaps - he could find a way to thank the man who saved him. 

"Anywhere, James. Everywhere," he says. 

"We are free."

**


End file.
